


Crooked Man

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: TD Shit [4]
Category: Total Drama
Genre: Acephobia, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Beating, Bullying, Dacryphilia, Depression, Emetophilia, Hardcore, Homophobia, M/M, Omorashi, Past Abuse, Rape, Slurs, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.<br/>He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.<br/>He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,<br/>And they all lived together in a little crooked house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked Man

**Author's Note:**

> this is really dark ok
> 
> there is a lot of homophobic slurs because duncan is trash

The bathroom smelled of something like...something clean. It was so clean here, he couldn't believe it. He hung over the toilet bowl, hacking up last night's remains of alcohol. He tasted it on his teeth -- The cheapest beer around.

The door swung open without a warning. What the fuck, he thought he locked that shit, this was a public bathroom. The click of hard-soled boots came through, he turned his head with his sight glossed over. He couldn't even see, his sight was so fucking blurry and weird. Even his guts were shaking, his _guts_ were _shaking_. This was such a hangover. It was horrible. Or maybe he was in a state of delirium.

"Giddafuck out, 'm busy. Door was closed."

His words slurred together, and everything came off so heavy. He felt the taste of acid at his throat.

"Fuck, I know you." The man replied. "Harold."

He sounded almost familiar. The ginger hauled his face out of the porcelain bowl. He guessed he'd be here for awhile, not wanting to bother LeShawna with the smell of vomit back home, so conversing with this man may be a time-waster.

He turned his head, ever-so-slightly, though it was turned already, he needed a better view. Black hair, deep green down the middle, a sort of oceanic bluish-greenish eye color, dressed in what seemed to be leather and chains. He wished he didn't recognize that hair, that kind of garb, those eyes, all three made one person. One unpleasant person from those television years, those years when being Harold meant something.

Those years he had to deal with Duncan Barr.

"I thought you died or something..."

"You wish, dorklord."

Clearly, Duncan hadn't matured a bit. Or perhaps, he was just feeling nostalgic. "You look pretty fucked up." The punk continued to speak. "Got shitfaced 'cause nobody likes you?"

"Shuddup."

He felt something on his hair. A hand, then it became a fist, pulling each strand from its roots. Leverage to slam his face against the filthy toilet seat, and quite hard, at that. One would think Duncan was past such roughplay.

"Don't tell me what to do, fag. You're the one who never shuts up."

His jaw realigned for a moment as he groped and grabbed for words. Duncan, uncaringly, smashed his face to the rim once more. A bloody tooth fell into the toilet water, and in this horrible moment, Harold didn't even have the time to figure out what it was before Duncan gave him another hit.

"Fuck, how're you still alive? I figured you'd have snapped your pencil-neck by now."

Harold refused to question this. It seemed like something Duncan would do. By now, he was just unfazed by this kind of suffering. It happened so often, and nobody would stand by him, nobody would protect him. He learned the best strategy is mere acceptance. With utmost nonchalance, he simply dipped his head into the wretched bowl and deposited another load of half-eaten muck.

"You sound fucked up."

"Yeah..." Was all he could muster, raising his neck slightly. Those thick hands, lined with muscle and filth, drew away from his head and down each pointing vertebra. This felt fucking weird. He tried to think back to a time Duncan touched him with such a sense of...intimacy? Was that what he felt? Intimacy, and from Duncan no less, it was something between enjoyable and disgusting.

"You have a girl's ass, Harold."

What kind of comment was that?

"You've got fuckin' Courtney's ass, you've got the ass of a whore."

"Where's this coming from? Go away already, you can beat me up later, or whatever."

"No, no, you're too good to waste. I ain't seen nothin' like this since I took Gwen back on the island."

It took him a moment to comprehend. Not because he was an idiot, but because from what he had seen, Duncan was as straight as a phone pole. Why was he even saying stuff like this, he wouldn't say it to one of his male friends, let alone to Harold. He wouldn't do anything like that to someone he hated.

Or would he?

He stopped thinking for a moment -- a mere moment, mind you. Only a little idea popped in, the possibility that, maybe this was because Duncan hated him. Then his head was all a rush, he felt sick all over again. Duncan, his old rival, his sole enemy, this guy was _quite literally going to rape him._

"Don't,"

That was all he could say. He inhaled harshly, consuming the stench of rotten acid.

"Don't."

He repeated.

"Don't what? What gets you on your high horse, tellin' me what to do?"

That delinquent, that filthy man, he, he, he put his hand on Harold's ass. He had a fucking hand on his ass. Duncan was groping him. This was exactly what he had thought, and his head burned with ways to escape. How did he do this when his dad got angry? What was his defense mechanism, besides taking it like a man and peeing on the floor? Did he even have anything?

When a finger reached under the band of his pants, immediately his first instinct was to urinate. How that came into adulthood, he wasn't really sure, but it did. Due to his position, kneeling by the toilet, it just got all over his knees. As much as he could pray, there was no way it wouldn't be noticed. If this were his father, he'd back off to continue tricking young Harold into thinking he was a good father. But this was not dad, and he was not just being hit.

"Fuck, in your twenties and y'still wet your pants! You're a fuckin' riot, kid! A fuckin' _riot!_ "

"T-t-t-t..."

He couldn't even correct Duncan on his age. (To be quite specific, as of now he was about 24.)

"Whatever, whatever. Probably wanna get your gross-ass panties off now that y'fuckin' pissed in 'em." He persisted, roughly pulling the rim down until it sat under his backside. His genitals prodded slightly at the waistband of his boxers, which extended just around his upper thighs. 

"I'm fine."

"Well I'm not, Gwen says she's 'asexual' or some bullshit. What the fuck does that mean? 'Asexual', my ass."

He swiped Harold's nose harshly across the lip of the toilet bowl, and then shoved his face inside. There was vomit in there, he was being waterboarded with puke. Jesus christ, Jesus H Christmas and everything holy. The only other noise he heard was the sound of a zipper before he felt the pain.

Immediately and on instinct, he rose against the pressure. Duncan simply shoved his maw back into the hot, rancid goop as he pushed, pushed, _pushed._ It didn't feel good at all, it just burned, and his legs and face and body were all heated artificially by a ruthless fire. The only thing returning him to reality was when his assaulter gave his arse a very, very rough smack.

"If you were a chick, I'd eat yer ass any day. Too bad you ain't, 'stead just a faggot."

Whether on accident or on purpose, he slammed Harold's face to the seat of the toilet as he pushed harshly, an unforgiving in-and-out. There was a bruise on his face, for sure, and on his head maybe as well.

His thoughts were muddled, as were his senses, and if he got uppity Duncan would simply slam his face onto the seat or lid. Spluttery, splattery, crimson-red blood came onto the seat in massive quantities after the fourth or fifth hit. His nose might've been broken. Duncan declined to properly deal with Harold's injury, and instead flipped him over. This was what the townsfolk called 'missionary position', wasn't it?

A tongue entered his mouth, and his eyes snapped shut. It would have been so tender, if there were not blood running down his face and filthy, filthy genitalia in his ass. The blood was cleaned away, replaced, and cleaned away again. And then came something else hot, something hotter.

He rode it out harshly, violently, slamming in and out harder than before. He tasted blood and sickness on his lips. This was the worst experience Harold McGrady V-- No, any iteration of Harold McGrady would ever have to deal with. It poured over his backside, and when the kiss was broken, the filthy larrikin looked pleased.

Duncan pulled out, and left him there. It was sticky, and white, and disgusting. Duncan came. Duncan came inside him. He should have never gotten drunk, or hung over, he should have never stopped in this gas-station bathroom to vomit his guts out. If only he had fucking known. And LeShawna, oh damnit, what would she think? Would she blame him? Would she hate him?

People always said this stuff wasn't the victim's fault, but afterwards, the victim always felt so dirty.

He felt crooked, bent out of shape, like a boy with scoliosis.

Or perhaps, just emotionally dead.


End file.
